


The Red String of Fate

by met_a_mawr_fuh_sis



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Angst, F/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Romance, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/met_a_mawr_fuh_sis/pseuds/met_a_mawr_fuh_sis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There standing to his right is the dream of Beth Greene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is partly inspired by the song Woman King by Iron and Wine and also by the Chinese proverb about the Red String of Fate, which goes something like this: Two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. There will be one other part of this story which is Beth's point of view maybe with a little Daryl right at the very end.

_someday we may see a woman king, wristwatch time | slowing as she goes to sleep_

_black horse fly, lemonade | jar on the red ant hill  
garden worm, cigarette | ash on the window sill_

_hundred years, hundred more_  
someday we may see a woman king, sword in hand  
swing at some evil and bleed

 _Woman King ~_ Iron and Wine

 

They wander the earth. The ground is cracked and dry under their feet. Dust rises around them covering their skin in a fine layer of grit that rubs them raw and lays them open to the sun's relentless rays. Streams have run dry; creek beds, rivers, and lakes allude them. Empty cans rattle in empty packs, echoing the sound of empty stomachs. Their mouths taste of ash. They cannot go back. Nothing lies behind them but destruction and worse despair. A trail of blood marks their path spattered across the highways of Georgia. Daryl tugs at the red string tied around his wrist testing it's strength as he has a thousand times. The braided band holds true (as it has a thousand times) resisting the harsh pull and twist of his fingers.

Carol gives him _her_ knife. The very knife that he had found for her at the country club. He remembers picking it up of a dead body and pressing it into her trembling palm. _You said you could take care of yourself. Prove it._ He tests the red cord with the edge of her knife, watching as few strands burst under the pressure of the sharp blade. He puts the knife away before it cuts the band through and then tries his best to smooth the frayed edges. The red string unravels farther until it hangs on by a thread, clinging to his wrist. 

He is tired of his family watching him with gazes that are mix of pity and understanding, sorrow and compassion. The weight of their eyes lay too heavy on his aching back. He veers off the road and stops when he sees a barn. He blinks and looks a again because for a moment it isn't a barn at all.  _We should burn it down._ He fingers the lighter in his pocket and collapses against a tree. 

He blames himself. He hates himself.  _Just another dead girl._ He really fucking hates himself. Fishing around in his pocket he pulls out the stubs of a few cigarettes. Lighting up he lets the smoke roll in and out of him and then presses the hot cherry into his skin, twisting, watching his own flesh smolder. He feels nothing. Gently, gently, he runs his fingers over the red string.

 

~

 

_They are in the middle of a big box store heading for the exit when he notices her stop to look at a display of brightly colored threads. It had been a huge risk coming into the store but it had paid off; both of their packs are full of scavenged cans found tucked deep into the recesses of thrice ravaged shelves. They have enough food to last them for days if not a week. He pauses the slow steady sweep of his eyes across the store and watches her shove three skeins of red string into her back pocket. He doesn't comment, shrugs a shoulder and moves on. The ways of Beth Greene are often a mystery to him._

_Later that night they are holed up in an old hunting cabin. Half the roof has fallen in but it is raining and it is cold so for now four walls and half a roof is better than no roof at all. Beth is sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor weaving long threads of red thread through her pale fingers. They had managed to find a few candles and her face is lit with a soft flickering light that paints her skin in gold and yellow. He is sitting close beside her, her arm brushing against his each time she twists her hands._

_“What are you doin' Greene?”_

_She doesn't answer right away and he watches the tip of her tongue peek out from the corner of her mouth as she ties a knot and then grins at him holding up her finished work. “Makin' bracelets.”_

_“You got bracelets,” he replies gesturing at the collection of beads and leather on her wrist._

_“Arm please.”_

_“Nah I ain't into girly shit.”_

_She rolls her eyes and laughs. “It ain't girly shit Daryl.” Her expression changes, the smile slips from her lips replaced with a stubborn tilt. “It's called the red string of fate. It's more important than a bracelet.”_

_“Don't believe in fate.” He hesitates but holds out his arm anyway and she neatly knots her creation around his wrist. She smiles at him again and her eyes glitter in the candlelight. It reminds him of the way her face had looked that night hardly a week ago; the night she had helped him burn down his past, the night they had scampered away into the trees wild and free. Her blue eyes had danced in the light then as well, her middle finger pointing defiantly at the stars, at his past, at the god damn Governor, at God him fucking self. Maybe he does believe in fate. He tugs at the string. “What's it mean?”_

_She's already busy making another one, clever fingers measuring thread for her own wrist. “Oh I read about it in a book once. Supposedly the gods tie an invisible red string around each of us. The threads connect you to those you are destined to meet no matter what. The thread my tangle and stretch but it'll never break.” His heart flutters in his chest as she glances shyly over at him, a pink tinge rising in her cheeks. “Just always thought it was a nice idea. Thought maybe I'd make one for everyone once we're all back together. That way if we ever lose each other...”_

_She doesn't finish her sentence and the air in the room thickens around them. The thought of losing her now after what they've been through twists in him like a dagger in his gut, a blade that digs deeper each time he takes a breath. Words and emotions rise up and get clogged in his throat, choking him. He can only grunt and nod his head in reply while she begins to hum softly by his side._

 

_~_

 

Daryl shifts and rolls over onto his back, uncomfortable in the heavy silence of the living room. He throws one arm over eyes trying to block out the early morning sunlight that is just starting to creep into the room. Sleep has never come easy to him and it seems even more elusive in this place; this mansion that is solid and clean and far far too bright. Even the damn counter tops sparkle. He has refused to claim a room and has been camping out in the living room instead, keeping watch even when no watch has been set.

Rick's wearing a badge, pretending he's still got the morals of a country sheriff and Carol's wearing cardigans and baking casseroles like some sort of apocalyptic den mother. They are the only ones playing the game, keeping their cards close to their chests. Maggie is lost, her green eyes dull and flat even when she's smiling at Glenn. Sasha's is angry, Noah is broken, Abe is apathetic. None of them belong here, none of them fit. Daryl least of all. This place is trying to push them all back into the molds of what they used to be. Cop, mother, sister, priest. None of those titles fit. That's what irks Daryl the most. There is no title for what he is or what he was, no category that he fits neatly in to. Redneck, drifter, white trash, biker, brother, fighter, hunter... lover. None of those suits, they're all expired. _Stay who you are._

He feels tight, shoulders, back, chest, all pulled taunt like a bowstring, like he's about to burst open. On the road he had been numb but now he is angry, restless. He can't go back like the rest of them seem to be doing and he can't go forward. He can only move sideways, always at odds.

He should be happy for his family. Happy to be settled, have running water, enough to eat, a roof and four walls. But he' ain't happy. Been a long time since he's felt even a glimmer of that emotion. Not since pigs feet and peanut butter, the soft glow of candles and eyes the color of the summer sky. Happy was the soft sound of her voice and the warm flit of her hand against his arm. _Beth._ Her name is a prayer that he doesn't dare utter. He's not worthy to speak it. His fingers trail automatically to the red string stilled tied around his wrist. The red string of fate. Maybe he's got to give it up, release those memories to truly fit in here. Maybe that's the price. Well fuck that. The cost is too high.

He finally gives in and sits up, back creaking in protest. Picking up his crossbow he heads for the door, stepping outside and taking a long piss off the front porch. Floor boards creak behind him and he turns to see Carl framed in the door way.

“Can't sleep?” he grumbles. Carl shakes his head. “Ya should try.”

Carl shrugs and looks around, his eyes sweeping over the quiet houses tucked in around them. “Place kinda gives me the creeps.”

“It's not so bad,” Daryl replies squinting, trying to keep the lie off his face. Truth is the whole place feels off to him. Too clean, too insulated, with fences that are reinforced from the outside. These people are weak, half of them wouldn't make it a week out on the road.

“Think we'll stay?” Carl asks.

It's Daryl's turn to shrug. “Your Dad seems to think we should.” He moves to step off the porch, slinging his cross bow over his shoulder, taking comfort in it's familiar weight against his back.

“Where you going?” Carl asks.

“Huntin'.” He walks away and doesn't look back. Not for the first time he thinks about leaving, going out for good and not coming back. Carl is safe. Judith is safe. The rest of them are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. They don't need him and he knows Rick will take this place in the blink of an eye if he sees a chance.

Daryl saunters down the road. The sun is just beginning to peak over the walls but all of the houses are quiet. These people aren't early risers. One more tick against them. He gets to the gate and gestures at the gatekeeper to open them. They should be used to it by now. He's been going out every morning for more than a week. That woman Deanna hasn't given him a job. He feels her eyes on him whenever he's inside the walls, feels her trying to piece him together like he's some damn puzzle that only she can solve. He ain't about to tell her she'll never succeed. Too many missing pieces. Well that woman can take him how he is or leave him all together. He doesn't give a shit.

The gate rolls open and the keeper yells down, asking him when he'll back. Daryl's only answer is a middle finger pointed towards the sky.

 

~

 

“Why you followin' me?!” His temper is rising, boiling over. He is angry at this timid man with his crisp flannel shirt and a shotgun strapped to his canvas backpack. Angry at how calm the other man always is, angry at how stealthy. He still can't believe they had been being followed all those weeks, can't believe he hadn't picked up on it, can't believe he hadn't seen the signs. That was his failure and he has already tucked it away, another length of rope to hang himself with.

Aaron blinks slowly, his hands raised in surrender. Daryl sees the other man swallow hard, clear his throat. “We just want to know where you're going.”

“Y'all ain't my keepers. I ain't a prisoner,” Daryl spits out and then spits on the ground for good measure.

“No,” Aaron shakes his head. “You're not a prisoner.”

Daryl slowly lowers his crossbow and Aaron lowers his hands.

“Why you followin' me then?”

The other man hesitates for a moment. “Deanna thinks you're... unpredictable.”

It's Daryl's turn to blink. He remembers thinking the same thing about Shane a life time ago. Unpredictable is just a polite word for dangerous. He runs his fingers over the red string on his wrist. “That what you think?”

Aaron shrugs. “I'm not sure.”

Daryl turns and walks away. They are in the middle of a field, tall grass brushing past his hips. He heads for the closest grouping of trees, keen ears hearing the soft steps of the man trailing after him, which he does his best to ignore.

He freezes when Aaron continues speaking, his voice soft and hushed. “I know you lost something, someone maybe. Beth?”

The sound of her name floats in the air, ringing crisp and sweet like a bell, echoing in his ears. _Beth. Beth. Beth._ His breathe comes whooshing out of him as his veins fill with ice. He spins, crossbow flashing up, centered on the other man's forehead. “You don't know shit! You think you know me cause you listened in on a few conversations? You think you know what I had or what I lost!? You think you know anything about any of us?! You don't! Y'all been tucked safe behind your walls for the last three years, livin' easy, hidin'. You're soft! You're weak! Maybe I'm unpredictable, dangerous but ya'll are livin' on borrowed time. Soon enough someone else will come around and take what you have, rip it away from you, set it on fire, piss on it's grave for good measure!” It's the most he's spoken in ages and it leaves him panting as rage and grief flow over him.

“Woah woah woah!” The other man is backing up, hands flailing.

Daryl takes huge lungfuls of air, trying to breath through his nose, as his finger caresses the trigger of his bow, stalking the retreating man in front of him. _Remember who you are. Remember who you are._ Herwords are a sweet litany in his head keeping his finger still. 

“We know!” Aaron practically shouts, his hands still held high in surrender. The crossbow lowers an inch. “We know we're weak! We know our walls won't keep us safe forever. That's why we need you, why we need Rick!” 

Daryl lowers the crossbow again. “Y'all just using us!”

“And you're using us!”

That was true enough. Daryl turns again and walks away heading back towards the shadowed treeline. Suddenly there is an angry snarl from his right and he sees a lone walker stumble into sight. The walker is old, gray skinned and haggard, it's clothes barely hanging onto it's brittle bones. Daryl unsheathes his knife  _her knife_ and moves forward. He grabs it by it's rotten collar and plunges the sharp blade into temple before it has a chance to do more then snap it's teeth at him. The thing drops and Daryl bends to carefully wipe clean the precious metal in his hand. Standing he looks back to see both barrels of Aaron's' shotgun trained on him. 

A sense of piece washes over him, acceptance. He's hardly surprised, doesn't even bother to raise his hands. He touches the red string on his wrist and waits. Nothing happens. There is no flash, no burst, no shooting pain. Instead Aaron's mouth moves, spilling out some indiscernible words and the end of the rifle moves aiming at something behind Daryl.

Surprise makes Daryl turn and instinct leads him to raise his bow, his gaze focusing on a dark figure emerging from the trees. A man gripping a long wooden staff steps into the field the hood of his tan jacket pulled up, throwing his face into shadow. “Who the fuck are you?” Daryl growls.

_“Daryl?”_

Time stops, rewinds

“Daryl?”

Daryl's ears ring as he swings towards the sound of his name. There standing to his right is the dream of Beth Greene. Her blonde hair is pulled up high, balanced in a messy bun that gleams in the afternoon sun. Her jeans are ripped and muddy, boots so worn that they are nearly falling off her feet. The edges of her familiar yellow polo peek out from underneath a faded green army jacket. There is a dirty bandage covering her forehead and the scars on her face are thin angry slashes that cut across her skin. She is bloodstained and pale, but her arms are steady and her grip seems sure as they hold a pistol trained on Aaron. Daryl is dreaming and his dream is looking at him with eyes the same color as the sky that arcs above them.

He sees her pale pink lips move forming the syllables of his name but he has gone deaf. Blood roars in his ears and the thunder of his own heart is the only thing he can hear. He touches the red string on his wrist. _The thread my tangle and stretch but it'll never break._ The crossbow drops to the ground with a clatter, loaded arrow knocked loose to land haphazardly at his feet. He can't feel his limbs, his hands are numb, knees weak as her gaze washes over him. He could stand here forever, sun beating down on his shoulders, grass tickling his fingers. He could stand here forever and just look. He would be content. He would not ask for more.

Out of the corner of his eye he is aware of Aaron lowering the shotgun, aware of Beth lowering her own weapon and turning to him fully. There are tears building up in her eyes, threatening to spill down the pale curves of her cheeks and Daryl thinks that's odd. The Beth in his dreams doesn't cry.

“Daryl!” Her lips form his name once more and this time the sound manages to penetrate the haze of his thoughts. He blinks and watches as she drops her gun and sprints towards him, her eyes locked on his face. When she crashes into him he nearly falls to the ground. Her strong arms are the only thing that keep him standing as she wraps herself around him and presses her face into his chest. Sound and color, touch and warmth, taste and smell all rush back to him bombarding his senses. The sound of her sobs, the color of her hair, the brush of her skin against his own. He falls to his knees, his legs giving out underneath him. She falls with him still clinging to his waist. He can feel her tears soaking his shirt. She pulls away to look up at him and he looks down at her in wonder. His hand rises of it's own accord to wipe away the water on her cheeks, the pad of his thumb running over the sliver of her scar.

“You're a dream Beth,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse and barely there.

“I'm not a dream,” she whispers back, pressing her cheeks into his hand.

“You're a dream,” he insists, his fingers moving on to stroke a piece of her hair that has escaped it's confines.

She shakes her head, a tiny smile turning up the corner of her mouth. “I'm not a dream Daryl Dixon.” And then as if to prove it her lips press against his, soft and sweet and burning.

That's how he knows in the end. That's how he wakes up from the nightmare he's been living. He comes alive with Beth Greene's lips on his skin, kissing his cheeks and his forehead and the line of his jaw. _She's alive. She's alive. She's alive._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Beth is silent as they walk. They are all silent. For Morgan, for Daryl, and even for her silence is second nature by now. But she thinks it might be harder for the man who is accompanying them. Aaron's eyes are kind but curious and she has seen his gaze darting to her and Daryl's clasped hands more than once. Beth clings tightly to Daryl's broad palm. His skin is rough but surprisingly cool. She's afraid that if she lets go he'll disappear, that she'll be back in that long dark hospital hallway that plagues her dreams.

She glances over at Daryl's profile. His hair is even longer and there are heavy purple shadows smudged under his eyes. Briefly she wonders if she should say something, start to try to explain how she came to be here, what happened to her. He's already told her that Maggie is a live and Rick and even Judith, but she desperately wants to know more. Words come a little slower to her now; most of her memories are foggy, blurred. What she remembers before Morgan is shot through with flashes of pain and confusion. The wound on her forehead aches, a dull persistent throb that never really leaves. Sometimes it feels as if she's forgotten whole chapters of her life. She'll reach back for a memory that she should have like the sound of her mother's voice but often she only finds a blank space. The emptiness haunts her. Dark places full of shadows writhe and reach out for her even when she's awake. Beth often feels lost but some things have always remained crystal clear: the gentle curve of her Daddy's smile, Maggie's bright laugh, the feel of Daryl Dixon's hand in her own, the flash of his eyes in firelight. She squeezes his hand and smiles a little as he squeezes back.

They are walking down a paved road lined with ruined houses. A high metal fence set with a barred rolling gate is looming up before them and Beth's mouth goes dry. Her chest constricts as her breathing picks up. She is bound by the iron band of her own panic. Walls no longer make her feel safe. She's clutching Daryl's hand so hard that she's sure she's cutting off his circulation but he only returns the pressure and leans towards her. His lips brush the shell of her ear, “ It ain't so bad.”

The deep rumble of his voices soothes her nerves and she sighs as she feels the pressure in her chest lessen just enough so that she can breathe. The gate rolls back and Beth gasps at the surreal sight of perfectly manicured lawns and tall stately houses with brightly colored doors. There are flowers and lampposts and in the distance she can hear children laughing. The farther they walk the larger the houses become and Beth's eyes widen farther as Aaron waves to an old couple who are sitting casually on their front porch sipping what looks like lemonade. A woman walking a black lab approaches. The dog strains against it's leash trying to smell the newcomers and the woman pulls it back with an apologetic smile and a friendly nod. “Daryl they have dogs here,” she whispers.

“They even got all their legs,” he quips, smirking down at her but not before she sees a brief flash of pain in his eyes.

Beth steps closer to him. She feels as if she might float away if not for the strong tether of his hand holding hers. This place is absurd. It is so at odds with the one she knows that it feels like she has stepped onto a movie set and her mind struggles to cope.

There is a distant cry and the wild pound of boots on pavement. Suddenly she is enveloped by a pair of strong arms. Noisy sobs fill her ears and she can feel a flood of tears beginning to dampen her hair. Her hand is ripped from Daryl's and the loss of contact is a physical ache. Frantically she searches for him with her gaze and her rising panic ebbs as she meets his eyes. The corner of his mouth turns up in a gentle smile and she is finally able to return her older sister's embrace.

“Hey Maggie,” she whispers. Her sister sobs even harder squeezing her so tightly that she fears her bones might snap. Glenn appears and pulls Maggie away. He presses a warm hand to her shoulder and she gives him a grateful smile. And then Carol is there in a terrible floral sweater that makes Beth chuckle as the older woman wraps her in a gentle hug. Michonne and Carl are next. Beth looks around for Tyresse but the big man is missing and Sasha is wearing Bob's army jacket. She doesn't need to be told that there has been tragedy. Noah comes hobbling forward to greet her with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Rick appears last holding a miracle. Beth lets the tears come as she holds the little girl that she had sung too, played with, and rocked too sleep for over a year. She is reeling, flooded with so many emotions and memories that she feels like she might fall over. A strong hand splays across her lower back holding her up, lending her strength at the exact moment she feels like her knees might give out from under her. She leans into Daryl's warmth and straightens her spine as she hands a babbling Judy back to her father. There are others. A big red haired man with a mustache, two dark haired women, and a timid man with a mullet all come forward to be introduced. The man with the mullet starts talking to her about statistical averages and the likelihood of surviving a gunshot to the head before one of the dark haired women darts forward to pull him away.

Aaron steps up and says they need to go and see someone named Deanna. Nearly everyone protests, saying that it can wait, but Aaron insists and soon they are all walking down the flower lined road. They come up to a large house with a wrap around porch and a small blonde woman steps out surprise evident on her face as she surveys the crowd of people clustered on her doorstep. Aaron whispers into her ear and her expression changes to one of curiosity as her gaze lands first on Morgan and then on Beth.

“Morgan, Beth. Welcome to Alexandria,” the woman intones spreading her hands before her. “My name is Deanna. I'm sure you must both be tired but if you don't mind I'd like to speak to each of you.”

Morgan goes first. The rest of the group stands around chattering, asking her a thousand questions that she only has half the answers too. Daryl stands close behind her. They are not quite touching but he is nevertheless a warm presence at her back. Soon the group starts to drift away heading back to the houses they have been assigned. Even Maggie leaves, tasking herself with finding Beth new clothes and something to eat. Beth watches her sister walk away one arm cinched tightly around Glenn's waist.

Night is falling fast and a full moon is rising on the horizon. Only Daryl and Rick remain on the porch with her. She is exhausted and the persistent pain in her head is slowly amplifying, a pulsing throb that beats in time with her own heartbeat. The two men are looking at her with concern.

“Beth if you're too tired for this I'm sure Deanna can wait until morning to talk to you,” Rick states and Daryl nods in agreement.

Beth is about to open her mouth to reply when the door opens and Morgan steps out followed by Deanna. She makes eye contact with the man who has been her companion for over a month. Morgan nods slowly at her and she lets the corners of her mouth turn up in a half smile. His reassurance is comforting.

“Beth. I won't keep you long. I know you must be tired.” Morgan shifts out of the way and Deanna gestures Beth inside. Daryl moves forward at the same time she does and Deanna holds up a hand. “If you don't mind Mr Dixon I like to conduct the interviews privately.”

“I mind,” Daryl replies a hard edge to his voice as he stares at the much smaller woman in front of him.

Beth places a hand on his arm and does her best to ignore the little electric zing that pulses through her when she lays her palm against skin. “Daryl it's okay. I'll be fine.” Daryl opens his mouth to say something else but she cuts him off. “I ain't going anywhere. I promise.” She runs her hand down his arm and squeezes his hand. He shuts his mouth and nods. Giving him a gentle smile she allows Deanna to usher her into the house.

 

...+++...

 

Daryl sits alone in the hallway, head propped against the wall, idly chewing at his thumbnail. He feels more then a little foolish, sitting alone in the quiet house waiting for Beth to come out of the bathroom. She had smiled and gently pushed him back when he had inadvertently tried to follow her in twenty minutes earlier. He hadn't even been thinking, had been on autopilot, where she goes he goes. At this point he thinks he would follow her to the ends of the earth and jump off the edge if that's what she wanted.

A pair of legs appear in front of him and he looks up to see Carol standing over him holding a towel and a stack of clean clothes. “Thought maybe you'd want to take a shower too,” she says dropping the pile in his lap. “Downstairs bathroom is free and there might even be hot water, unless Beth manages to use it all up.”

Daryl grunts and shakes his head.

“I wasn't kiddin' about hosin' you off in your sleep,” she teases.

Daryl shrugs a shoulder.

“You smell,” Carol states bluntly, switching tactics.

“Don't see why you care.”

“You wound me Pookie!” Carol presses a hand to her chest, pretending offense. “Truth is I don't care... but Beth might.” She smirks down at him and Daryl glares up at her from behind the curtain of his hair. They stare at each other for a full minute before Daryl climbs to his feet grumbling. He hesitates turning to look at the closed bathroom door where they both can hear the shower still running. Carol's expression softens, as she places a reassuring hand on his arm. “She's not goin' to evaporate Daryl.”

 

...+++...

 

Daryl shuffles into the living room, hair wet and clinging to his face. Beth's sitting on the couch staring into the flames of the gas fireplace. It is late and the house is silent except for the faint echo of Carl's snores from upstairs. “Hey,” he whispers softly not wanting to startle her.

She turns and graces him with a small smile. Her hair is damp, drying into lose curls that frame her face is soft waves. She's wearing a pale pink hoodie that she's zipped up all the way to her chin. She is perfect. He blinks at her unsure, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hadn't expected to find her here, figured she would have gone to her room already, had planned on just passing out on the couch like he usually did.

“I don't think I can sleep,” she whispers.

“You must be dead on your feet,” he replies and then cringes at his word choice as his eyes flit over the scars on her face.

She notices and brings a hand up to trace the mark on her cheek. “Not the most becomin',” she sighs breaking his gaze for a moment.

He shakes his head taking a few steps forward. “Make you look like even more of a badass.”

She glances at him again, a little laugh escaping her. “Badass Beth Greene?”

His mouth turns up a the corners. “Definitely.”

“Do you think...” her face softens and she hesitates biting at her bottom lip. “Do you think you could sit with me? Just until I can sleep,” she adds on quickly.

He doesn't reply just moves to sit beside her on the couch, his thigh pressing into hers. He takes a deep breath and manages a glance at her, trying to still the erratic pounding of his heart. She is silent for a long moment and they both stare into the flickering firelight.

“It doesn't feel real,” she murmurs.

“What don't,” he rasps, even though he thinks he knows.

She shrugs. “This place.” She peeks over at him, her eyes smokey in the dim light. “Bein' here with you. I don't want to go to sleep. I'm afraid if I do I'll wake up and it will all be a dream.”

“I ain't going nowhere,” he replies repeating her words from earlier in the night.

She smiles and leans in closer, bumping her shoulder into his. He makes room lifting up his arm for her to slide under so that her head is tucked against his chest. The movement was as natural as breathing and he thinks that he has never felt so content as he does now.

“Is this place as good as it seems?”

Daryl hesitates. “Don't know. Maybe.”

“Deanna seems nice.” He snorts and she swats at him playfully her fingers flicking at his thigh. “She does!”

“She don't like me.”

“She doesn't know you.”

“Well she don't trust me.”

“I trust you,” she whispers pressing closer to him. Her hair tickles his nose and his breath hitches in his throat as she moves to trace the red string still clinging to his left wrist. She glances up at him smiling, her lips hovering near his jaw. “You kept it.”

He's not sure what to say so he just grunts and then shivers as her long fingers trace up and down the skin of his forearm.

“They took mine at the hospital, cut it off or something.” Her voice sounds faraway, too small and timid for his liking. “Do you think...,” she pauses but then presses on unsure, “Do you think Rick is going to wear the police uniform around all the time? I don't think that I can... it's just...” she trails off and then shrugs helplessly, words failing her.

A surge of anger flashes through him setting him on fire even as he presses her closer to him. If he could he would go back in time and shoot every one of those assholes. “I'll talk to him about it,” he manages to say.

She glances up at him again and this time her soft lips press against his cheek. “Thank you.”

The old familiar guilt is starting to press in on him as he looks down at her curled into his side. He can feel the self hatred beginning to bubble up in the pit of his stomach. She shouldn't be thanking him, shouldn't trust him, shouldn't be running her fingers over his own, definitely shouldn't be kissing his cheek or treating him like he's worth a damn. He had failed her, failed her so spectacularly that it made his head reel and his guts twist into knots. The only reason that she was here sitting beside him was because she herself was a goddamn miracle. A living breathing miracle and he wasn't worthy to lick her boots, let alone kiss her mouth which was all he could think about doing since he saw her in that field this morning. “You shouldn't,” he blurts out harshly.

“Shouldn't want?” She's looking up at him again, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Shouldn't trust me.”

Beth pulls away from him so that her gaze is level with his and he does his best ignore the cold that's seeping into the space that she had been filling. “What do you mean Daryl?”

He shakes his head looking down at his lap, shrinking in on himself and jerks his head away from her grasp when she tries to tilt his chin back up.

“Daryl look at me.”

He refuses, staring resolutely at the floor.

“Please Daryl,” she whispers, her voice laced with pain. It's her tone that makes him look at her. Her eyes are wide and luminous and he can barely stand to meet her gaze. “It's not your fault. None of it. Not one bit of it. You found me,” she implores.

“I lost you,” he croaks.

“But then I found you.” Reaching down she touches the red cord on his wrist. “It tangles, but it doesn't break.”

His head is swimming with a thousand different thoughts and his heart feels like it's jumped into his throat stopping up anything he might want to stay. He lets himself run his thumb over the scar on her cheek and then brushes his fingers gently across her forehead. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “You found me,” he whispers.

She opens her eyes and leans in. He holds his breath as she places her lips against his own. It is soft and sweet and slow and it spreads lazy shimmering golden warmth into every part of Daryl Dixon's body. He feels like he's floating a mile off the ground as she pulls away and looks at him, brushing the hair off his forehead. “We found each other,” she states simply.

He leans forward and pulls her to him, settling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her small frame. He presses her face into the crook of her neck and breathes her in. “I missed you so bad when you were gone Beth Greene.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unedited so forgive flubs. It all just came pouring out and I rolled with it. Thanks for reading!


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